


i hold you and whisper

by Biggus Slickus (crownlessliestheking)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Domesticity, Drabble, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Intermission style, Kissing, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Second person POV, injury mention, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28494594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/Biggus%20Slickus
Summary: He just looks at you, bows to ghost his lips against the skin there, mottled a dark green on the outsides and a deep, ugly purple near the center. You’re lucky the fucker who did it wasn’t wearing any rings. You were, you saw his teeth fall out like shitty peppermints. The kiss hurts, deeper than skin. Deeper than the bruise.He tells you that you have, but not from him, and he’s of a mind to keep it that way.
Relationships: Dad Crocker/Diamonds Droog
Kudos: 9





	i hold you and whisper

**Author's Note:**

> First fic of the year. My crusade for more Intermission (and more DadDroog) content continues. At least this time I don't have to fucking make up the tag.

you look at me and cry

_everything hurts_

i hold you and whisper

_but everything can heal_

_-_ Rupi Kaur

\---

You wake in a bed that’s too soft to be yours with faint grey light filtering in through the blinds.

Awareness slides back in slowly. Might be that you don’t want it to go too fast, might be that you’re just tired. Might be that you don’t know what time it is, and you sure as hell ain’t gonna check just yet if it means moving. You’re the kinda man who likes to take his time waking up and getting ready for the day (or, more accurately, the night, given your occupation). You have a morning routine and you like to stick to it, come hell or high water.

‘Course, neither of those are worse than your boss when he’s in one of his damn moods again, so when you get to wake up slowly, you take the damn chance to.

You don’t want to open your eyes just yet, so you don’t. Instead, you focus on the way the sheets rasp against your skin where it’s exposed- just your legs and arms, outside your plain skivvies. Ain’t any blood on them from last night, and you’re damn pleased with that. It’s a bigger pain than anything else to work the blood out of the white, when it’s sat there for so long you’re near marinated in it.

You still showered before you got into bed, of course. You can’t bear to get into a bed without rinsing the filth off you first- and it doesn’t matter, if the filth’s real or imagined some days. Boxcars’d say it’s a compartmentalization thing, if he’d had a few drinks in him first. Liquid courage. You’d disagree, on account of you not seeing the need for philosophizing. You’ve never had to compartmentalize anything before- there was you, and the Crew, and your job. You sure don’t have to now.

You just like being clean, is all. No point in falling asleep with the same sweat you brought in from outside. No point in falling asleep sweaty either, but you’ll admit that you’ve warmed to it, some days. Especially not on this bed- it’s better than the mattress you’ve got in your bare-bones apartment. Memory foam, your host had told you when you first remarked on it. Good for the back.

You hang your hat up here more nights than not, when you ain’t in the hideout. You’ll admit that it’s got its positives- you can wake up and leave without disturbing him if you have to, and it’s easier on any injuries than a spring mattress. But your back ain’t bad, and otherwise you can’t say you’ve noticed any real difference, not without his hands to take you apart first. You don’t tell him this, of course. Mr. Crocker’s a good man, and you’ve been told you’ve got a mouth meant for cutting.

You’d taken it as a compliment, then. Matched the boss’s personality- and his knives-, both made for cutting. Slick’s a sharp thing. You’re different. Used to be that you took issue with that. Now, with the deep, even breathing of someone else next to you in the quiet of the morning? You figure you’re fine with it. That kinda sharp ain’t what you want to bring into your personal life, as much as you got one.

You didn’t think you’d get one. But here you fuckin’ are, Diamonds Droog, real name none of anyone’s business, least anyone living except for four other souls. You’ve got a drawer of your own here, a solid four hangers in the closet and a place for your shoes. You’ve got an ashtray for your smokes on your side of the bed, and another in the living room, and there’s a bottle of your favorite wine always around and a key burning a hole through the pocket of your pants when you ain’t here.

You haven’t gone soft. You ain’t capable of it, you know that. He knows it too, but he’s never said anything about wanting you to. Maybe you’d consider it one day, if he asked. But probably not. Probably it’s best he doesn’t. You ain’t ever going to be anyone else- if he asked you to choose, there ain’t much of a choice.

Not when you’ve got a Crew to keep together, making sure your boys toe the line because the boss doesn’t so much see the line as piss on it while he’s flinging himself to the other side. Not when you’ve gotta be steady for ‘em, keep heads cool and make sure your own anger’s good and tucked away except for when you fuckin’ need it.

Not even when you manage to lose your cool- never in front of them, you’re fuckin’ careful, but there’s plenty’a poor, unfortunate souls who thought they could get the drop on you just ‘cause you’ve got your suit in order and you let Slick do all the talking that’d say otherwise if you’d left ‘em in any shape to talk afterwards.

And not even when you’re aching all over, and it ain’t the good kind from your company last night. You weren’t in any shape for more than a kiss or two. Sometimes you get more, when you’re feeling indulgent and your companion’s feeling greedy. Ain’t often that you get a man like that to be greedy; you find it flattering, you’re more than happy to prompt him into it.

You ain’t ever gonna admit to getting _old_ but fact of the matter is you’ve been doing your job a hell of a long time and you’re real good at it, if you do say so yourself. But your job comes with its own occupational hazards, as you like to call ‘em, and you’ve got plenty of those reminders spread across your body. Still. There’s nothing else for you to do, you know that. You’re fine with it, always have been; you knew what you were getting into when Slick said all those years ago, you ‘n me, we’re going places, we’re gonna make this city ours. And the boss has a whole laundry list of bad to him, but he ain’t ever been a liar.

You finally open your eyes. You want a smoke. You don’t bother with going to get one. There’s a shift in the noise of Mr. Crocker’s breathing next to you, but you don’t feel much like talking, either. You don’t know how the fuck it is he’ll wake up almost as soon as you do- no matter how damn careful you are. Least you try to make it so that he can get back to sleep when you’ve gotta go. He says it’s because he raised a kid. If anyone else is up in the house, he’s gotta be. He talks about his kid a lot; you just nod like you know what he means. She’s a fine dame, from what you gather. You never ask to meet her, he never asks if you want to.

You still want a smoke.

It’s raining outside, you hear the light drizzle against the roof. You don’t much like the rain. The fella on the bed next to you stirs. He ain’t as sharp-dressed as he always is, but neither are you, and you figure you’ll let it slide this time on account of the fact that he looks damn good even sleep-rumpled as he is.

He inquires as to whether you’ll be taking your leave soon. Your chest aches where that fucker Cans had slammed his fist right into you four nights ago like he thinks he could actually punch you into next week. The bruise’d been a lot worse back then, enough that you’d pushed your appointment with Mr. Crocker back until yesterday. The bruise is still fuckin’ here. Used to be you’d be good as new by now. Used to be, he wouldn’t have got you to begin with. There’s a cuestick with his name written all over it next time you see him, that’s for sure. You always pay your debts back. With interest.

You shake your head. No. You don’t have anywhere to be. It’s still early. You don’t actually know if it’s early; the sky’s all gone earl grey, ain’t no light to tell you if its six in the morning or six in the evening or somewhere between.

The sheets rustle and he sits up behind you. He asks you to turn around, Mr. Droog, polite as you please. You don’t bother to tell him not to call you Mr. Droog. You think you like it, coming from him. You don’t tell him that, either. So you turn around.

He’s looking at the bruise. You ain’t bothered about your scars, usually; you don’t care for ‘em, but he’s never made it his business. Seems like he’s making this his business. He asks if it hurts. You ask him if it looks like it hurts. You ain’t in a mood to be coddled- who does this dandy think he is, coddling you. He ignores your tone and says it does, but he’d have preferred you said so. He’d have taken more care. You tell him to stop being a fool, sharpish. You tell him you can take worse. You tell him you have taken worse, thanks.

He just looks at you, bows to ghost his lips against the skin there, mottled a dark green on the outsides and a deep, ugly purple near the center. You’re lucky the fucker who did it wasn’t wearing any rings. You were, you saw his teeth fall out like shitty peppermints. The kiss hurts, deeper than skin. Deeper than the bruise.

He tells you that you have, but not from him, and he’s of a mind to keep it that way.

You’ve got nothing to say to that.

And with his lips pressing against your skin, firmer once he’s moved away from the bruising, because Mr. Crocker’s a real gentleman that way, he’ll keep his word- you don’t have anything to say for a long time afterwards.


End file.
